Another Love (33 page)

‘I don’t think there are enough words to say thank you, Father Brian, so can I just give you a kiss?’ She wrinkled her nose at him.

‘Romilly, sweet child, if you think it’s okay to tell me that I am “fucking righteous”, then a kiss should be fine too!’

‘Oh God, I didn’t, did I?’ She placed her hand over her eyes, remembering the night she’d relapsed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’ll be here, you know. Always.’ His voice was solemn. ‘But find a group that suits you in Bristol and attend.’

‘I promise I will.’ She meant it, knowing she would need the support, possibly forever.

‘Because you won’t really know how you’ll cope until you’re tested.’ He spoke from experience. ‘I shall miss you, Romilly Wells.’

‘And I you.’ She raised his hand to her mouth, kissed his fingers and cried, remembering how she had climbed up onto the railings…

‘Ah, come on, this is no time for tears; this is a good thing, a happy thing! You are going home.’ He beamed.

She nodded, unsure of what home looked like, or even where it was.

*

‘She’s here! She’s here! Lionel! Lionel! Girls!’

Romilly heard her mum shout up the stairs and along the hallway as the taxi from the station dropped her outside the house. She had refused the offer of a lift, wanting to use the time to compose herself as she arrived back in Wiltshire.

She felt a jolt of love for her family home after so many years away. She eyed the narrow concrete path, which had been set with so much care by her dad one hot summer. He’d done his best to keep the three girls off the wet sludge; they’d wanted to leave their handprints and write their names in it, and Holly had wanted to bury her Barbie there. The boxy hedging was now wider than the path it was meant to edge, reducing the front garden by a good margin. She wondered if they’d noticed or if it was like many things that you lived with every day: you stopped really looking. Wasn’t that a lesson she’d learnt in spades, she thought bitterly. And over a hell of a lot more than a straggly hedge.

Romilly shook her head; this was no time to be thinking too deeply or too far ahead. She adjusted her short hair around her ears, practised her tight-lipped smile and took her first step on the path.

‘You cut your hair off!’ Holly shouted, as she rushed up to hold her sister in a tight hug.

‘Yep.’

‘What happened to your long hair?’ Carrie yelled, as she found a gap and wiggled in to join the huddle.

‘She cut it off.’ Holly answered for her.

‘Oh, will you look at that, Lionel! All my little girls together. All together again.’ Their mum unfurled the tissue that had been scrunched inside her palm and blotted her tears.

Lionel stood at his wife’s shoulder. Romilly caught his eye and smiled. Her dad looked much, much older and a little stooped, but his expression was the same as it always had been; he was glad his girl was home.

Romilly settled back on the familiar sofa while her sisters sat on the floor and her mum and dad took the two chairs opposite. All four stared at her. After a second or two, she coughed. ‘I know I look very different. I suppose I am very different.’ Her tongue darted to the gaps in her mouth.

‘You look grand, Romilly.’ Her dad winked.

‘Yes, but you do look different,’ Holly started. ‘Though not in a bad way. I mean, you need to put on some weight, but not as much as Carrie, obviously.’

Carrie punched her twin on the arm.

‘You look better, calmer. Not totally bonkers crazy like you used to.’

‘For God’s sake, Holly!’ Pat tutted.

‘No, it’s fine, Mum. It’s good to be open about everything. I’ve learnt that.’

‘Are you staying? You can stay as long as you want, you know that,’ Pat said quickly, as if to counter the implication that the family had been less than frank with Romilly.

‘Thanks, Mum. I will for a bit, while I get things sorted in Bristol.’

She noted the snatched breaths and the wave of unease that rippled around the room at her mention of Bristol.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I don’t mean Stoke Bishop; not home.’ It felt odd calling Stoke Bishop ‘home’. ‘Just Bristol, where I’ll try and get a job and somewhere to stay and things.’
To be nearer my girl, my beautiful girl. To build a bridge that might help her find her way back to me…

Pat clapped. ‘I think this calls for a little celebration!’ she said. Then her face dropped. ‘Oh God! I didn’t mean… you know… I just meant a cup of tea and a slice of Victoria sponge.’ She looked close to tears, mortified.

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ Romilly reassured her. ‘You can say the word “alcohol”, and you guys can have a drink if you want to. I just won’t. I can’t and I never will be able to. It’ll kill me and I’ve come too far to let that be an option.’ She didn’t want to burden her parents with the details of her liver damage and the other health problems caused by her drinking, but it was good to be upfront, set the rules.

‘Do you still want a drink, or have you been cured of that?’ Holly asked.

‘No, Holl, I can’t be cured, sadly. I’m an alcoholic.’ She let the word linger. ‘But I’ve learnt to live cleanly, without being dependent on booze. I guess I’ve broken the habit and I really want to keep it that way. The longer I don’t drink, the more I feel positive that I never will.’

‘So can you just have a drink at Christmas or your birthday or whatever?’

‘No. Not ever. It’s toxic to me.’ She looked at her sister, saw her horrified expression. ‘Like a poison, an allergy, and that’s just the way it is.’

‘Like one of those people who’s allergic to peanuts and puffs up like a balloon if they get within three feet of a Snickers?’

‘A bit like that.’ She smiled.

The following week, Romilly was pushing the trolley up the aisle in Pewsey’s supermarket, trying to find the Fig Rolls that her dad liked with his afternoon cuppa; her mum’s goodies cupboard was running low. Her new phone beeped in her hand. It was a number she didn’t recognise. Opening the text message, she read the words and gripped the handle of the trolley.
Would be good idea to meet up. Are you in Bristol any time? David.

She read and reread the message, scouring the fourteen rather formal words for subtext. The fact that he hadn’t used her name was strangely hurtful; there was no
Hey Rom!
or
R
. The temptation to call him back immediately, to hear his voice and bombard him with questions about Celeste was strong. Her pulse raced.

She inhaled deeply and focused on her breathing and keeping her head clear. The technique came quite easily to her now. Closing her eyes briefly, she managed to slow her pulse as she pictured herself floating above the clouds, soaring high and looking down on the world. She saw the verdant patchwork of fields below, the hedgerows and flowers, and a large rectangular pond with the sun glinting off its surface, where a woman and her child dipped sticks into the murky green water and laughed and laughed. This helicopter view helped her make decisions, helped her see consequences and look further down the line, rather than reach for the instant gratification that lurked three aisles away and came in stoppered bottles.

She clutched the phone and slowly composed her reply.

*

Romilly sat at the little metal table by the path, enjoying the view of the water tower and the Downs beyond. There was something wonderful about being in a place that was so familiar to her, but there was a lot of sadness too. She pictured herself walking out of the café a dozen years ago, with Celeste gripping her hand, stealing a few licks of the ice cream before passing it to her daughter. She let her gaze wander down the road that led to Stoke Bishop, just a couple of miles away; to the house whose front-door key she’d owned and whose wallpaper she’d chosen.

A cough from behind interrupted her thoughts. Romilly closed her eyes for a second and tried to compose herself. Suddenly, there he was, by her side. The years since she’d last seen him fell away and the flip to her stomach was the same as it had been on the steps of the Wills Memorial Building a couple of decades before.

He had aged, of course, but was still her handsome man. His eyes still crinkled in the same kindly way, his jaw was still chiselled, despite the beginnings of a small pouch under the centre of his chin. The smattering of grey hair that peppered his temples only made him look distinguished. She didn’t recognise the suit he was wearing and that made her heart skip a beat. It was something obvious yet unconsidered by her, that the clothes she always pictured him in, his smart slacks, washed jeans and favourite jersey, would have been replaced by new items, chosen by a person who had supplanted her, clothes that had not felt the touch of her hand.

Smiling a little awkwardly, David bent and grazed her cheek with a formal, fleeting kiss that was more heartbreaking to her than if he hadn’t kissed her at all. As if she were a grandma, a whiskery aunt or an elderly neighbour.

‘Well, this feels a bit strange, doesn’t it?’ he began. She had forgotten the soothing velvety tone to his voice.

He sat in the chair opposite and took in her short hair, weathered face and no doubt the missing teeth. She cupped her right hand over her mouth, inadvertently drawing attention to them.

‘It is strange. You look well, David.’

‘It’s good to see you, Rom. You look a lot better than the last time we sat here.’

All she could really remember about that day, the day she’d decided to leave Bristol for good, was the pull of the bottle in her bag, and the look of revulsion on his face.

‘I am. Thank you.’

The formality was hard to stomach. Who would have believed the two of them had once rolled naked under the sheets, had bathed together in their grotty student bath, and had held hands, crying in unison, as they were delivered of a daughter.

‘How’s Celeste?’ She swallowed, keeping her tears at bay by sounding a little colder than she intended. This was a technique she’d learnt and it was far better than collapsing in front of onlookers, and David.

‘She’s… you know, so grown-up! I expect your mum’s told you about her love of learning. It always makes me think of you, to see her with her face buried in a book, studying some obscure data about a rock or something.’ He smiled. ‘She’s hoping to study geography at Southampton University, if she gets the grades. Fingers crossed. She should be fine – you know, the harder you work, the luckier you get!’

She smiled at him, recalling his mantra from the early days of their marriage. ‘University! God, it doesn’t seem possible.’ They looked at each other, both of them thinking about their own uni days, a mere hop from where they now sat, a heartbeat ago.

I miss her so much, it makes my heart hurt…

‘Can I see her? Do you think she’d want to see me?’ Her tone had softened a little and with it her composure slipped a fraction. She sat up straight.

He gave a slow nod and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘She knows I’m seeing you today and she did as she always does, took it all in and will think about it, talk it through and then come up with questions. She’s quite analytical and very level-headed. Mature, really.’

‘She must take after you. Did she get my letter?’

‘Yes.’ He shifted in his seat, coughed and flattened his lapel, ‘yes she did.’

‘I wanted to tell her how I felt and what it’s been like for me.’

He nodded, ‘it did that. She was a little frightened, thought it sounded a bit like a final note…’

She held his eye and smiled, shyly; he had no idea how this was nearly true. ‘So do you think she might want to see me?’

He sat back in his seat. ‘I think the answer is, all in good time, Rom. You know? Let’s not rush her. When she’s ready, she’ll come to you and she knows she won’t meet any resistance from me.’

‘Thank you for that.’ Her voice cracked a little. She was grateful. A different man might have advised their daughter differently.

‘That said, I don’t want her to get hurt.’ He looked at the sky, as if searching for the words. ‘She’s in the middle of her A levels and I don’t want anything to throw her off course.’

Romilly nodded. ‘I do understand. I’m not drinking, David. Haven’t for a few years.’

‘Yes,’ he said, already in receipt of this knowledge. ‘But…’

She took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, it is a “but”. It’s a daily battle, but one that I’m winning and I want to keep on winning.’

‘Well, for what it’s worth, I’m really proud of you.’ He held her eye.

Don’t say you’re proud of me; don’t be too nice to me. I don’t want to cry in front of you, not today.

‘I expect you’re wondering why I wanted us to meet up?’ He coughed again, as he did when he was nervous or tired. ‘The thing is, Rom, as you know, I met someone a while ago…’

No! No! No! Please, David, not this.

‘She’s called Annie and she’s great. You’d like her.’ He looked up, as though he’d just remembered who he was talking to. ‘And the thing is, we’re looking at our future. None of us are getting any younger, are we?’ He gave a small smile. ‘And, well, I do want a divorce, Rom. I mean, we were done a long time ago and I want to move on. I regret sending that letter when you weren’t ready to receive it. I’m sorry. But I think now it’s time we properly moved forward. It’s what I want and I’m sure you do too…’

She knew he was speaking, but the words were muddled in her mind.
I used to think that one day I’d be back at that sink, washing out the cups, making us tea, ironing your shirts. I guess I thought I would slip back in, seamlessly and fully repaired, back into my old life, and you and I would laugh at how far we’d come and all the things we’d been through. Your Bug Girl, back in your arms. I can see how odd that must sound, but that’s what I thought. I have thought about your note on so many nights and I concluded in my own muddled way that you must have meant that this woman was ‘incidental’ of no great importance. It got me through many a dark night, lying against a magnolia-painted wall, thinking it was only temporary, just until I was better and I could come home…

‘So what do you think?’ He sighed, clearly relieved to have delivered the words that he had no doubt been practising for some days.